


Meet the Family

by cywscross



Series: December Fanfic Challenge [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, DECFANFIC, Fluff, Future Fic, Language, M/M, Slash, Stilinski Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2731904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>(Day Six – Planning family party)</em>
</p><p>“Peter, I have six aunts, eight uncles, and fifteen cousins all coming to town for Christmas dinner, a father who can’t cook to save anyone’s life, and exactly seventy-five hours and counting to get everything ready! I literally cannot spare a single second for your crazy right now!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet the Family

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Teen Wolf.**

 

 

“No,” Stiles says adamantly, and his hands would be on his hips if they weren’t occupied with a mixing bowl.

 

“No?” His... person-whom-he’s-sort-of-dating of going on two years echoes from where he’s leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, lazy amusement in every line of his body.

 

“Absolutely no,” Stiles confirms, setting the mixing bowl down on the counter, keeping one eye on the preheating oven, and simultaneously rifling his cupboards for the cookie trays. “I'm busy; _really_ busy. I don’t have time to screw around with you.”

 

“You love screwing around with me,” Peter counters with a not so subtle leer. “And I must say, you look lovely in that apron. Even lovelier if you were naked under it.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he almost strains himself, which would be bad because he doesn't have time for that either. The timer goes off, and Stiles grabs the oven mitts, flitting between stove and counter and cabinets.

 

“Seriously, Peter, not now,” Stiles admonishes him distractedly. “I told you not to come around for a few days.”

 

“What exactly is the rush here?” Peter enquires, making no move to leave. “This looks like a lot of food for two people, even for Christmas dinner, and Christmas Eve isn’t for another three days.”

 

Stiles scoffs. “I _wish_ it was just for two people, but no, actually. My family’s coming to Beacon Hills to celebrate this year seeing as it’s our turn to cook. Well, _my_ turn anyway; if my dad cooks, the hospital will be working on overtime pay this week.”

 

Peter still looks faintly skeptical. “Starting three days in advance though?” He pushes off the doorframe and saunters forward, idly reaching out to run a teasing finger down the back of Stiles’ neck. “I can think of more interesting things to do, you know.”

 

Stiles growls irritably (while getting started on the sauce for his prawn cocktail), batting his werewolf boyfriend’s wandering hands away. “Peter, I have six aunts, eight uncles, and fifteen cousins all coming to town for Christmas dinner, a father who can’t cook to save _anyone’s_ life, and exactly seventy-five hours and counting to get everything ready! I _literally_ cannot spare a single second for your crazy right now!”

 

Marching past the now slightly taken aback Beta, Stiles yanks open the fridge where several finished dishes are already stashed. Thank god some foods can be pre-made and still taste delicious.

 

Pulling out the butter and the milk, he shuts the fridge door and turns back, only to find Peter leaning against the counter now, a thoughtful look on his face.

 

“I never realized you had such a large family,” Peter remarks, watching as Stiles bustles back over to where the mixing bowl is sitting.

 

“We’re numerous and widespread,” Stiles confirms briskly. “And all of us meet up over Christmas, and we draw straws to see who hosts the party each year. This year is the first time it’s been in Beacon Hills, which means I have to cook up a feast fit for a king. Or at least thirty ravenous people.” He makes a face. “And Uncle Anton is a chef. He’ll be picky about _everything_.”

 

He heaves a weary sigh, scanning the kitchen with a critical eye. This is going to take a while.

 

“What can I do?”

 

Stiles blinks, and then snaps his head around, eyes widening when he sees Peter shucking off his coat before proceeding to roll up his sleeves. “Wh- Huh?”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. “What can I do to help? The sooner you finish, the sooner I can fuck you.”

 

Stiles splutters indignantly but he can hear the soft edge of affection in Peter’s voice behind the nonchalant words so he can’t really get mad. Still...

 

“You don’t have to; I’ll still let you fuck me,” Stiles assures him dryly, earning a smirk from Peter. He tacks on more seriously, “I’ll get everything done; it’s just a lot of work, that’s all.”

 

“I insist,” Peter says. Insistently. He steps around Stiles to wash his hands at the sink. “An extra pair of hands will only help, Stiles. I even promise to leave all poisons at home.”

 

Stiles snorts. “That’s not funny, you psychopath.” He glances around again before capitulating. “Fine. You can start on the pies. And I need you to run down to the liquor store later.”

 

Peter smiles. “Of course.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seventy hours and counting later, everything is ready, the kitchen is immaculate, Stiles shamelessly cheated with stasis sigils on the turkey – and pretty much everything else that needs to stay hot – so that it won’t get cold or overcooked, the house looks about as Christmas-y as it can get with the tree and the lights and the tinsel, Stiles’ father is tying up last-minute loose ends at the station, and Stiles himself is snoozing on top of Peter on the living room couch.

 

“I should get going,” Peter murmurs from beneath him, heartbeat thumping against Stiles’ ear. “Your relatives will be arriving soon.”

 

“Mm-hm,” Stiles mumbles sleepily. “Whazzat have to do with anything? You have to go home and change or something?”

 

Peter shifts a little under him. “Change?”

 

Stiles stirs and lifts his head, squinting in confusion at the werewolf. “Yeah. I mean, you look fine to me, and we just took a shower and changed and everything, but I know how you are about clothes so if you wanna run home for something else...”

 

He trails off, frowning at the odd look on Peter’s face. “What’s wrong?”

 

Peter cocks his head. “...Are you inviting me to dine with your family, Stiles?”

 

Stiles sits up even more. “Yeah, of course. I thought that was-” He wracks his mind. “Oh damn, I never actually asked you, did I? I just thought you might want to since Derek’s visiting Cora, and everyone else is with their families...” He feels the tips of his ears go red. Clearing his throat, he offers awkwardly, “You don’t have to if you have plans of your own or whatever. I just- I wanted you to meet my family, that’s all.”

 

Which sounds kinda stupid out loud, especially since Stiles just _assumed_ that Peter would want to be accosted by a bunch of veritable strangers, but it’s not like Peter has anyone else to spend the holiday with as far as Stiles knows, and he doesn't want the werewolf to be alone for Christmas.

 

“And you helped with the food!” Stiles hastily adds for lack of anything less embarrassing to say. “It’s only right that you stick around and enjoy i-”

 

Stiles is abruptly cut off with a kiss, languid and slow and thorough. By the time Peter pulls back, Stiles’ lips feel swollen, and his brain is pleasantly hazy.

 

“Is there anything I should know about your family before I meet them?” Peter asks, running a thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip with a possessive sort of smugness that doesn't match the gentle warmth in his blue eyes.

 

Stiles beams, dropping his own fleeting kiss at the corner of Peter’s mouth before lowering his head back down to rest his chin against the werewolf’s chest. “Well, they’re all pretty friendly, and they already know about you. Or, at least, they know I’ve been dating an older guy named Peter for like two years now.” He sneaks a glance up at the older man. Peter doesn't blink. “Um, I guess there’s just a couple things – one, nobody will expect you to remember everyone’s names ’cause there’s just too many of us; if you get stuck, just ask, nobody will get offended. Two, no swearing around the children. Not that you swear a lot anyway so that shouldn't be a problem. And three,” Stiles snickers. “Some of my cousins already have kids of their own, and they’re obviously younger than me, but if it’s just my generation, then _I'm_ the youngest, and the others, well, they tend to get a bit...”

 

“Overprotective?” Peter suggests sardonically, looking amused and resigned at the same time. “Shall I prepare myself for an interrogation? Or maybe a bullet or two in the kneecaps?”

 

“Nothing like that!” Stiles laughs, but both of them remember what Stiles’ dad did the day he found out. “They might grill you a bit, see how you hold up, but they won’t take it too far, and I’ll be there to run interference if they try anything too drastic.” He grins a little. “Don’t worry; I like you too much to abandon you to the tender mercies of my family.”

 

The roar of a motorcycle interrupts Peter’s response, and Stiles immediately perks up, scrambling to his feet and heading for the door. “That’ll be Fio! Come on, I wanna introduce you! Fio’s number six out of all of us; he used to babysit me when I was a kid.”

 

Stiles hears Peter chuckle from behind him even as the werewolf follows at a more sedate pace. He’s glad Fiorenzo’s the one who’s arrived first – this particular older cousin can be protective, but he’s also fairly laidback, and he won’t go for the throat right away when Stiles introduces Peter.

 

The same cannot be said of a few of Stiles’ other cousins. Still, none of them will take it too far. Hopefully.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter is more amused than anything else when three of Stiles’ cousins – all females, all sisters (possibly triplets; Peter didn't ask), and all rather terrifying by human standards if their sly expressions are anything to go by – corner him in the sitting room the second Stiles ducks out for more punch.

 

“So you’re Peter,” One of them – Aislinn, if Peter remembers correctly – starts in a slow drawl from behind her drink. She has almost the same colour eyes as Stiles, and her smile is deceptively demure.

 

“Little Przemeczek hooked himself a good-looking one,” Another – Tiernan – observes with a coy smirk that’s one hundred percent fake as she gives him a perfunctory up-down examination. “Smart too, from what we heard. You were debating law with Killian earlier.”

 

“Good-looking _and_ smart,” The third – Saoirse – compliments, and Peter would believe it if not for the threat hidden behind her amicable smile, and the scent of warning coming from her like a dagger between the ribs. “One would have to wonder what you want with someone so much younger when you could certainly charm anyone else, especially one closer to your own age.”

 

Peter smiles back, equally mild, and equally unyielding behind it. Even in a houseful of people and Stiles out of sight, Stiles’ heartbeat still stands out in his ears, strong and steady.

 

“We’re very alike,” He tells them vaguely.

 

Saoirse arches an eyebrow, a stubborn gleam entering her eyes that says she won’t be deterred. “Oh?”

 

Peter’s gaze flicks over to the doorway of the living room just as Stiles sweeps back in with two cups of punch, only to be accosted by one of his other cousins and her three-year-old daughter. Still, Peter has to bite back a far more genuine smile when amber eyes immediately search him out first even as the cousin begins talking.

 

Peter shakes his head briefly. He doesn't need help dealing with three overprotective women on the warpath, no matter how much all three look ready to string him up by his balls should he prove unworthy for their baby cousin. Stiles quirks a wry grin his way that’s only _almost_ apologetic.

 

When Peter turns his attention back on his interrogators, something like surprise colours their features. Peter offers them another polite smile that doesn't quite hide the teeth behind it. Nevertheless, this is Stiles’ family, and they all care so much about each other that a part of Peter is almost envious, so he’s completely honest when he says, “Stiles challenges me. He makes me-” _–want to be a better person_. “-think and feel, he holds his own against me, and he’s never boring.” He shrugs. “I’ve never found anyone else like him, regardless of age.”

 

They leave him alone after that. Or not alone – no one in this family seems capable of making Peter feel like an outsider – but they back off after that, with speculative looks cast in his direction every once in a while. One of the younger cousins – Áine – follows Peter around like a puppy after she catches him kissing Stiles, seemingly fascinated by the fact that her “Unca ’tiles” might be getting married soon.

 

Peter outright laughs when he sees how red Stiles turns, and Áine instantly becomes his favourite.

 

(“She’s my favourite too,” Stiles confesses in private one time, always orbiting back to Peter and vice versa every few minutes. “I was named godfather, but she would've been my favourite even if I hadn't been.”)

 

Nobody else tries to grill him for details of his relationship with Stiles, though Dante – Fiorenzo’s (“call me Fio, future cousin-in-law of mine”) younger brother if one could believe that, seeing as they were polar opposites – pulls him aside for a quiet word while Fio distracts Stiles by dancing on the coffee table and cackling about something or other.

 

“Treat him right,” The twenty-something-year-old all but orders, rather unassuming overall with his square-rimmed glasses and knitted holiday sweater, but there’s a note of pure steel behind his words.

 

Peter nods, Dante nods back, and then he lets Peter go and returns to his book. Peter would say that this human is a strange one if he doesn't know that Stiles has the same tendency to tune out the world when he gets immersed in some obscure text.

 

By the time the party comes to a close, it’s past midnight, the children are asleep, and the guests slowly trickle out with containers of food under their arms.

 

“You break his heart, I break you,” Fio promises through a brilliant roguish grin that Peter suspects has had many a woman swoon for him. They shake hands on the front doorstep, and then Peter watches as the man catches Stiles in a bear hug before waving goodnight and disappearing down the street on his motorcycle, the last of the extended family to go.

 

Peter flexes his hand thoughtfully, still feeling the subtle sting. “Stiles, you didn't tell me that one’s a Spark as well.”

 

Stiles scratches sheepishly at one cheek. “Must've slipped my mind. To be fair, we don’t really talk about magic with anybody outside the family.” He snorts, one hand swinging out and almost absently lacing his fingers with Peter’s. “Although with the amount of hints dropped tonight, half of them are probably already planning the wedding, and I don’t think all of them are joking.”

 

Peter slants a look over at Stiles, flushed cheeks and all, staring determinedly out into the night as if the downward spiral of snow is the most mesmerizing thing he’s ever laid eyes on. Peter leans forward and presses a soft kiss to surprised lips.

 

Stiles’ eyes are wide and luminous when he pulls back, reflecting the lamplight and brightening to the colour of sunshine through a glass of whiskey. And then the boy smiles, small and crooked and smelling so much like love, and Peter completely forgets what he was about to say.

 

 _I wouldn't mind waking up to this for the rest of my life_ , comes the unbidden thought, and it curls in his chest like the fuzzy purr of a cat on a rainy day.

 

Someone clears their throat loudly, ruining the atmosphere, although that’s probably for the best seeing as it’s Stiles’ dad standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and an exasperated look on his face.

 

“You're letting the cold air in,” John tells them both with a long-suffering sigh. “Go home so I can lock up and head to bed.”

 

Stiles springs into action, whirling back into his house for his coat and a hug with his father, and then he’s out the door again, and they're soon heading back to Peter’s apartment with Peter at the wheel.

 

Stiles falls asleep before they get there, exhausted from three days of cooking and cleaning and decorating, and then from an entire evening of partying. He’s clingy when Peter wakes him, and he’s an octopus by the time Peter strips him down to a shirt and pajama pants before wrangling them both into bed.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Stiles murmurs, already dozing off again, half sprawled on top of Peter. “Love you.”

 

Peter listens to Stiles breathe for a while. He thinks he’ll wait to say it back when Stiles can actually hear him. It’s only fair after all.

 

His eyes gradually drift shut. Outside, the snow continues to fall, blanketing the world in peaceful, slumbering silence.

 

**[End]**

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


End file.
